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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24256936">Her Infinite Variety</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/AParisianShakespearean/pseuds/AParisianShakespearean'>AParisianShakespearean</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Actors, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Banter, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Rating May Change, Sexual Tension, Stage Acting, Tags to update, play acting</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 22:13:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>17,862</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24256936</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/AParisianShakespearean/pseuds/AParisianShakespearean</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Brienne of Tarth is not an actress. She works behind the scenes at the Winterfell Theatre, carefully hidden from any scrutinizing eye, and sometimes lending her expertise to fight choreography. </p><p>Yet when a prying and aggravating Jaime Lannister makes her think maybe she deserves to take up space on the stage, she begins to toy with the idea of performing for an audience. The only trouble is that when she gets her chance to prove maybe she is an actress, she’s cast as the lover Jonquil, a part that proves more complicated than she imagined.</p><p>(Un)fortunately, her leading man has her back.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>67</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>100</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Voyeur</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hey friends! Welcome into my first foray into Jaime and Brienne AUs. Almost one year ago, I began a long fic for one of my favorite fictional couples. I finished it not too long ago, and thought the muse quieted for them. However, I remembered an idea I had for them a long time ago, and decided to explore it. So we have this fic, an actor/actress AU I hope you enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Brienne of Tarth was not an actress, though she often thought of herself as one when she was younger. “We all have roles,” her mother used to say, “you must make your stage wherever you are.”</p><p>As a child she may have taken that sentiment a little too literally, as she used to dig through chests that contained old frilly garments—like old purple scarves and long skirts that used to belong to her mother—and she’d drape them either around her head or around her waist, fancying herself a woman in love on the stage, or lamenting a lover’s betrayal. It made Tarth bigger, seem like her role there wasn’t so small. She used to make believe and pretend all the time, before age turned the other children cruel in that distinctly blunt way children could be. <em>No one would want to see you. Too tall. Too homely. Not at all a face others would want to look at.</em> It made her wonder if she truly was a waste of space. It made her know, for sure, she shouldn’t go near a stage with an audience who waited to watch.</p><p>Even so, Brienne of Tarth would have been an excellent stage name, if Brienne was an actress. But, as it has been established, Brienne of Tarth was not an actress or grand lady of the stage. She was Brienne the Beauty, and “beauty” was not a name bestowed lovingly upon her.</p><p>The truth Brienne acknowledged and came to terms with long ago, was that she was neither pretty nor beautiful. Shameful as it was however, pretty and beautiful was what people wanted to see on the stage. However, Brienne was what time and self-discipline allowed, and not necessarily nature. She was responsible, just, and always punctual, even if there were no stage lights for her. In fact, so catching was her punctuality and responsibility, that it allowed her to work where she loved the most, though not as an actress or performer. Time and hard work excelled her to the stage manager of the Winterfell theatre, which meant either she stayed hidden backstage during rehearsals, or by the director’s side, taking note after note for Catelyn, who directed most of the shows. And during performances, tucked away in the light booth, she took no bows, and found herself content with her name, Brienne of Tarth, stage manager.</p><p>It wasn’t a job to frown at. A pretty face didn’t win her the job, or the job with Renly before that. Her work did. Besides, shows didn’t exist without the help of a stage manager, as Catelyn often told Brienne. She had every right to be proud, every reason not to wish for more.</p><p>She did. Sometimes. Sometimes even, when all the lights turned off and performances ended for the night, Brienne, always the last person in the theatre, would set the ghost light on the stage, and peer at the empty audience. The lamplight on her form, she would bask and remember the monologue she remembered her mother performing for her when she was a child. Other children got stories and picture books, Brienne received monologues as her bedtime story.</p><p>It so happened that Thursday evening after the production meeting, that Brienne, as always, was the last one left in the theatre. Earlier, Catelyn and their small group talked frankly about assets and possible deals with Lannister producers, leaving the group exasperated. The truth of the matter was their last production ended in a loss, and if their new staging of <em>The Tale of Florian and Jonquil</em> was to succeed, they needed Lannister backings. The Lannisters however, were still pondering where to spend their coin, leaving Winterfell Theatre in limbo. Head spinning from the meeting, and not a soul in sight, Brienne indulged in her alone time after everyone left. Unbeknownst, she had a voyeur.</p><p>Her soft sole shoes made the faintest pat against the wooden stage as she glanced at the empty seats, imagining her audience. She saw a thousand different versions of her mother, waiting for her to dazzle. I always imagine your father, she used to tell Brienne whenever she performed a love scene. Whoever my leading man was, I could only see him. Sometimes Brienne imagined Renly, who she worked for before procuring her job at Winterfell, but mostly it was a nameless and faceless figure that she conjured, because she didn't know what to do otherwise. What she knew of love, she only knew in stories. For a brief moment of pretend, she fancied that she knew everything about love. It was glorious. And on Thursday evening after that production meeting, when her voyeur had yet to enter, she conjured that nameless and faceless form and told him, <em>I have never loved till I met you, my moon and my stars.</em></p><p>Whenever she performed, it was simultaneously an out-of-body experience and moment she was keenly aware of with every fiber in her body. Each word echoed against the back wall, her rich voice filling the room. She felt each syllable, and felt the ground underneath her, each movement and gesture of hand both a deliberate choice and one that came to her right in the moment she was encapsulating. She created a world in the palms of her hands, with her voice and her body. No one was there to tell her she didn’t belong. It was a moment spent in the sun.</p><p>She finished, feeling the heat on her cheeks both from her power and the ghost light, her hands covering her heart. It was beating wildly, as if her lover was in front of her and begging her to live on and do what she set out to do, just as he said in the play following the monologue. Brienne imagined uproarious cheers following, a grand flourish, and then…</p><p>A clap.</p><p>She froze. She was supposed to be alone. She was always alone after production meetings.</p><p>Another clap. And another.</p><p>She heard something, that was all. That had to be it.</p><p>“Bravo, bravo.”</p><p>
  <em>Well, suppose you heard that too.</em>
</p><p>She didn’t. A figure emerged from the right side of the theatre. He must have slipped through the entrance and remained there as she performed. But it wasn’t performing, it was only pretend. She wasn’t good enough to perform.</p><p>“Oh come now. Aren’t you going to take a bow?”</p><p>Brienne remained a frozen statue, keeping her gaze away from the voyeur. She thought she saw a glimmer of a golden head, and the voice was a distinctly male voice, but otherwise she purposely blocked him out of view. Knowing what he looked like would make the whole escapade far worse, as knowing she had a visitor during private time was bad enough. It happened sometimes, people wandering in the Winterfell Theatre when there wasn’t a performance, as the building was a historic landmark in the North. However, that usually happened during the day, and not during her alone time.</p><p>“Oh, come on,” the man goaded. “You should bow when you receive applause. Rather rude. And what kind of costume is that anyway? Ill fits the moment, doesn’t it?”</p><p>“Theatre is closed,” Brienne tersely replied, trying not to feel self-conscious in her grey sweats and ruddy slip-on shoes.</p><p>“What was the monologue from? <em>Across a Sea of Moons and Stars</em>, correct?”</p><p>“You know the play?”</p><p>In her near pleasant surprise that another knew of the play, she faced the man that viewed her performance before remembering she was trying not to do that. She couldn’t help it. It wasn’t a widely performed play. Her mother, now Brienne, held one of the few copies that circulated.</p><p>The man smirked at her, hands on his hips, and she cursed herself for allowing her delight to take over. Despite this, she noted she had two advantages over him. Firstly, she was taller than pretty much anyone, including him, (though she could even from where she was, he could probably almost make her height) and secondly, she was hovering above him on the stage.</p><p>But that smirk compacted her. She didn’t like it. He knew it too as he sized her up and down. Bastard.</p><p>He was indeed blonde, as her peripherals caught, clean shaven, and wearing a forest green button-down that matched his eyes with faded denim blue jeans. With one carelessly elegant motion, he swept his hand over his hair. She likened him to a lion. She likened herself to his prey.</p><p>She wasn’t prey. She was the stage manager of this theatre, and that gave her more cause to escort him out.</p><p>Marching down the steps of the stage, she pointed her finger toward the exit. “Time to leave,” she stated. “The theatre is closed.”</p><p>“Why on earth would you close the theatre for a performance like that?”</p><p>She grimaced. “It wasn’t a performance. It was…just practice.”</p><p>“Hardly anyone does that show,” he casually brought up. “Shame too. It’s rather good.”</p><p>“It was my mother’s favorite.”</p><p>No, no, she wasn’t supposed to reveal that, not to this voyeur, not to anyone. Nevertheless, he didn’t know that solemn vow she made to herself…even if it was a vow she made for no reason.</p><p>He nodded approvingly. “What excellent taste,” he commented. Indeed he was right, but she wasn’t supposed to like him or agree with him. Flushing, she marched over to the door and gestured for her visitor to leave. Again.</p><p>He cackled. He remained put.</p><p>“Would you give me a grand tour?” he asked.</p><p>“I don’t give tours,” she stated, flat. “I’m just the stage manager.”</p><p>“It figures.”</p><p>She stared. “What do you mean…’it figures?’ What are you talking about?”</p><p>“Most stage managers are rather boring,” he replied, shrugging. “But if this is what the Winterfell Theatre has to offer…a stage manager who also likes to perform…perhaps it’s not so bad.” He offered a smile, which would have dazzled someone else. Not Brienne. “Come on,” he said. “If you will not bow, at least give me a tour.”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“You like good theatre. You’re not entirely boring or unappealing. You could find it in your heart to show me around.”</p><p>“You are very unappealing. Now out, out!”</p><p>“Oh come, come. Would you find it in your heart to give me an encore then? I think people don’t perform more of that show because people are frightened of the heroine. You are one such who isn’t, and should do it again.”</p><p>“No!” She’s sooner leap off the stage than perform for the likes of him again.</p><p>In response, he clicked his tongue and casually leaned against the stage, crossing his arms. “At least learn to take a bow,” he said. “When I was first starting out, it was the first thing I learned.”</p><p>
  <em>Of course it was, show off.</em>
</p><p>“I don’t perform because I want the accolades,” she said, keenly aware of how self-righteous she was. “I do it because I like it. It makes me happy.”</p><p>“Well, if it makes you so happy…” He mocked her tone, though it was less cruel and more playful, “why must you limit yourself to being a stage manager?”</p><p>“A stage manager is important,” she reminded.</p><p>“Certainly. But you’d be so…interesting to have on the stage.”</p><p>He may as well have called her ugly. He was certainly thinking it. Everyone did.</p><p>She ignored it. She wanted him out. “If I give you a tour, would you leave after?” she asked, at her wit’s end.</p><p>His laugh, different from his earlier cackle, was merry and boisterous. “No,” he said between chuckles. “I’ve seen enough. I’ll see myself out.”</p><p>He passed by her as he headed out the doors of the theatre, eyeing her up and down, again. Just as she suspected, she only had the smallest bit of height over him. The nightmare was almost over. He was going, going…</p><p>He stopped. He turned around. “By the way,” he said, and she had to stop herself from charging and showing off her wide breadth of fight choreography knowledge she had picked up.</p><p>She groaned. “What?”</p><p>Another smirk. “Your delivery was static. It would be much improved if you had gradually built, instead of staying on one level. You see, all dialogue is an unraveling. Particularly long monologues. However, I believed you, overall anyway. But, I do wish you’d learn to bow.”</p><p>He was gone. She sighed after, promising herself she wouldn’t take his advice or even think about it, and grateful things couldn’t get worse from where they were already.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>That night, Catelyn called Brienne. Things got worse from where they were already.</p><p>Catelyn made the long story short. Brienne’s voyeur, a certain Jaime Lannister, was going to be the lead in their new production of T<em>he Tale of Florian and Jonquil.</em> He was slated to play Florian.</p><p>“The Lannisters called, and told me the deal was on. They’re offering a lot of money for this production,” Catelyn said. “But Jaime Lannister has to be the lead. He was there tonight…and no one told me he was even coming. It would have been nice to know before, but of course that’s how the Lannisters operate. Did you see him at all?”</p><p>“Uh…”</p><p>“Brienne? Wait…are you there?”</p><p>“Uh…” Brienne gulped. “Yes. I saw him. I offered him a tour, but I didn’t know it was him.”</p><p>“You did good. He liked what he saw.”</p><p>“No,” she muttered. “I don’t think he did.”</p><p>“Is something wrong?”</p><p>She cleared her throat. “I’ll talk to you about this tomorrow, alright? I know you want to talk about scenery and set construction, and I got an email from the lumber company…”</p><p>Catelyn sighed over the phone. “Brienne…”</p><p>“Oh, I found it! I’ll forward it to you right now…”</p><p>“Was he cruel?” Catelyn asked. “I don’t have to take this deal. We all know the stories of how unbearable and needy he is. We can finance the play another way. I’ll find another actor—”</p><p>“No, no,” Brienne assured. “We need that money, and Jaime Lannister is a draw. And he is a good actor.” So good, Brienne had no inkling of an idea who he was when he came to the theatre. He asserted himself into the role of “casual bystander” that she was completely bamboozled.</p><p>“It’ll be fine,” she said, more to herself than Catelyn.</p><p>A pause from the other end, and then, an “Alright.”</p><p>“Do you want the email forwarded?”</p><p>Catelyn sighed again, too tired. “Do it tomorrow in the morning.”</p><p>“See you tomorrow.”</p><p>“Goodnight.”</p><p>Brienne hung up, and screamed into her pillow. One thing was certain about this. Firstly, there would be no more solo performances from her, and secondly, she was going to have to invest in some high-heeled shoes.</p><p>She was the stage manager. That was her role, and she had to assert dominance somehow. Even in the smallest way, of taking advantage of that one inch of height she had over Jaime Lannister.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Porn Star</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They said Jaime Lannister’s brief but memorable film resume included a porn film.</p><p>It was part of his dubious mystique and helped forge him into the enigma he was, though it was filmed and distributed in Essos and not widely available in Westeros. But Brienne had ways. Anything was possible with a simple google search. One download and she could see what all the fuss was about.</p><p>Sitting at her desk, surrounded by her wide and expansive bookshelf filled with plays and books on acting, Brienne hovered her mouse over the download button. Sighing, she refrained. As much as she later told herself she wasn’t even close to viewing the film, the fact of the matter was she did search for it. Eventually she came to two conclusions searching Jaime Lannister’s resume: one was that the “porn” film was more of an off-the-wall arthouse film, focusing on the romantic relationship between a young couple, and Jaime Lannister’s filmic career had stagnated. He was back in the theatre scene, his most recent effort a re-staging of the <em>Song of Azor Ahai.</em> His sister Cersei also starred, though perusing through reviews, Jaime was praised while Cersei was lambasted, one critic telling her to “put Erika Dane’s coat on and stroll back to the set of<em> All my Fledgings.</em>” Poor Cersei. She was part of such a renowned acting clan and she was stuck as a soap opera actress. At least she had a job.</p><p>In theatre circles, the name Lannister was one baked in infamy. Out of all the theatre troupes in Westeros, the Lannisters had the most money, and therefore had the most lavish productions. In fact, during their Azor Ahai production, they had a whole cavalry gallop across the stage, dazzling the audience. Style over substance, Catelyn often said about their shows. She theorized that they spent so much money on the sets, costumes, and hiring big-named actors that it took away from the shallow interpretations of the shows they picked—which usually were family friendly, or “safe” shows, and never new productions like Winterfell Theatre often picked up. They experimented, and they made art in Winterfell— not the cotton candy the Lannisters made. That was the thing about Brienne and her art. She wanted to make different kinds, and say important things with each piece she was a part of. It was one of the things she told Catelyn after Renly told her he didn’t need her help anymore. Catelyn hired her immediately after.</p><p>In fact, with every new show, Catelyn asked Brienne if she wanted to audition. She refused each time, once asking who would stage manage if Brienne was cast. “Sansa,” Catelyn replied. Only Brienne knew that was the last thing Sansa wanted. She wanted to be an actress, like Catelyn used to be, a grand lady of the stage who eventually moved to film. Theatre was the traditional art of Westeros, but film was new, cutting edge, experimental. Women of the stage were duchesses when film actresses were the new femme fatales. Sansa wanted to be both. Brienne only and dreamed of being one for herself, likely because one was already impossible. Having two roles, grand lady of the stage and femme fatale was pushing it much farther.</p><p>Searching the Lannisters, it became apparent Jaime Lannister’s film career sunk, and now the Lannisters were paying Winterfell good money to get him back on track. These days, actors typically used the theatre as a stepping stone to film. Jaime was an anomaly in the trend. Unlike his younger brother Tyrion, who had found success in producing, Jaime followed the family passion of acting. The Lannisters always concerned themselves with moving up, up, and up the ladder. Jaime was next in the line, to establish himself in film. It didn’t work out, judging by the “porn film,” which looked like one last effort to make himself relevant in that industry. Why it didn’t work likely had to do with his involvement with Aerys Targaryen. They had strict regulations coming in from Tywin Lannister that they were under no circumstances, allowed to talk about Aerys in front of Jaime Lannister during <em>The Tale of Florian and Jonquil.</em> Since Brienne didn’t plan on speaking to him unless it was necessary, it was an oath she could keep.</p><p>After auditions and the official cast list was posted, jaws dropped. Podrick—Brienne’s assistant stage manager, even called Brienne and demanded why he hadn’t been told sooner about it.</p><p>“What’s done is done Pod,” Brienne told him. “It’s all about money.”</p><p>“It should be about art,” he retorted.</p><p>“Glad you feel that way. I agree. But to make art, you need money. And the play is about Florian and Jonquil. Margaery Tyrell will make everyone forget Jaime’s in the show.”</p><p>The day before the first read through, Brienne surveyed her closet. It consisted of mostly sweatpants, black leggings and blouses she wore during performances, and paint-smeared trousers with loose-fitting tops for day to day activities. No heels. She liked flat sneakers and sandals, and wore the same pair of basic black gladiator-style sandals for every formal event she attended. Admittedly, she didn’t attend many formal events. Besides, she deemed herself tall enough, before Jaime Lannister.</p><p>The fact of the matter was she needed something with more pizazz, something that exuded power and confidence. A costume. Throwing everything she owned on the floor of her apartment, her only clothes weren’t costumes, but uniforms that allowed her to bleed into the world as just another mediocre looking girl—and at the best was she only mediocre. She eyed the chest in the corner of her room—filled with all her mother’s old costumes and scarves. She worried they would be too small for her, but furthermore, she couldn’t. It would be too painful.</p><p><em>What are you trying to prove?</em> She asked herself before she called Sansa, asking if she would be her comrade in a shopping trip to Wintertown. <em>You don’t have to prove anything to that porn star.</em></p><p>The morning of the cast read-threw, her black hoodie and leggings fit like a uniform. She grimaced at her reflection as she finger-combed her hair, but threw on her sunglasses and headed to the theatre. She met with Podrick. The two, as always, the first people there, set up the tables and set the placards for the cast.</p><p>“Do you like the show?” Podrick asked her, as Brienne set Jaime’s placard—strategically placed so she wouldn’t have to look at him.</p><p>Brienne shrugged. “It’s just the story of Florian and Jonquil. There’s some good dialogue, but it’s just another love story. Aren’t they all the same?”</p><p>“No?”</p><p>Brienne shrugged. “Well, they are to me.”</p><p>“I thought it was kind of romantic.”</p><p>“Glad you did Pod.”</p><p>Brienne asked Pod to do some last-minute sweeping and maintenance so she could pick up coffee for the two of them and Catelyn. At the nearby shop, she ordered a no-frills expresso for Catelyn, a plain coffee with cream and sugar for Pod, and a chai tea for herself. The chai tea came out first, followed by the coffee, and she sipped on her tea while waiting for the expresso. That was when Jaime Lannister showed up.</p><p>Brienne cringed. He strut into the coffee shop in his denim jeans and plain white t-shirt, taking off his aviator-style sunglasses and smoothing his hair back as if he expected a slew of fans to approach. When none frolicked to his side, he glanced around akin to a wounded animal, but recovered and headed for the counter. She hoped that the laws of reality would allow her one moment of reprieve, and she would camouflage into the brick wall she leaned against. She pretended like she didn’t see him strut to the counter as he ordered a caramel macchiato with extra caramel, and would you put some chocolate syrup on the whip cream too? Thank you very much.</p><p>She knocked her glasses from the top of her head back to her eyes, as if that would make the tallest woman with the palest hair in the room disappear. Jaime approached. He greeted her with a casual interest and equally casual smirk, Brienne drumming her fingers against the counter top. It had been two weeks since the debacle on the stage. Maybe he forgot.</p><p>He didn’t. “Been practicing lately?” he asked, once again, casual in his delivery in just the right way that made her want to fling her tea at him. Just as she had the thought of staining his white shirt with her chai tea, he commented on her drink of choice, calling it odd.</p><p>“It’s chai tea,” she said. “Spicy and simple. No frills.”</p><p>“What can I say? I like frills.”</p><p>As if on cue, the barista batted her eyelashes and handed Jaime his drink, the whipped cream weighed down with all the extra caramel and chocolate. Though bemused (however not totally surprised) Jaime the "hot guy" got his drink first, Brienne hoped he would make his exit.</p><p>He didn’t. Instead he slurped on his drink, eyeing her up and down. Should have gone shopping, should have gone shopping for new clothes…</p><p>“Do indulge me in something, will you?”</p><p>She pushed her sunglasses back, staring. “I will not indulge!”</p><p>“Just one question. Please?”</p><p>She huffed. “Fine. What?”</p><p>“Why didn’t you follow in your mother’s footsteps?”</p><p>She paled. He…knew about her mother? He knew whose daughter she was?</p><p>“What happened was a tragedy,” he said. “My condolences. I recognize it’s late, but my mother passed as well. It only gets marginally easier. Also, we weren’t acquainted a few years ago.”</p><p>“I’m sorry for your loss,” she offered.</p><p>“My mother was an actress, as well.”</p><p>“Joanna.” She remembered the name, the mystique around it. Joanna was beautiful, all golden hair and piercing eyes with high cheekbones, and she had to work twice as hard to prove she was a good actress and not just a pretty face. The press was against her when she started, as they all said the same thing. She’s only where’s she’s at because she married Tywin Lannister. Productions she was in lived on in memory. She worked for her legacy, and when she passed, the world knew she didn’t rise to stardom solely due to a pretty face and powerful name.</p><p>Jaime had a wistful look about him, stirring his drink. “Don’t know how she’d feel about me,” he admitted, peering at Brienne, asking again why she didn’t follow in her mother’s footsteps. She didn’t reply.</p><p>“Like I said, some practice and a few lessons, that’s all you need.”</p><p>She fumed, not just at his wry suggestion, but him. Him the showoff, the porn star, the caramel macchiato drinker. He knew why. Someone as dastardly attractive in such a classical way had to know.</p><p>One look at her was all he needed.</p><p>She scowled. He laughed to himself as the barista, finally, mercifully, plopped the expresso down. Brienne grabbed it and headed out.</p><p>“You are as boring as you are drab,” Jaime called. “But only a little less so on the stage.”</p><p>He’d come to find the extent of that during the first cast read through. As the stage manager, Brienne always read the stage directions aloud, while the actors took on their various roles. When she first emerged back to the theatre with Pod and Catelyn’s orders, she stared, horrified at the new arrangement, and at the placard with her name, moved next to Jaime’s.</p><p>“Please, just keep an eye on him, would you?” Catelyn asked. “I don’t want any funny business. And if he runs to his father about the situation, we’d be facing a huge financial loss. We won’t be able to do this play.”</p><p>Noted, but not happy about it, Brienne kept an eye on Jaime during the read-through, his leg knocking against hers whenever Florian had an impassioned speech—tragically often. He also kept an eye on her. As stage manager, Brienne’s task was to read the stage directions. She did so with a purposeful neutrality, allowing the actors to experiment with their characters and line delivery. As Catelyn said, this was where the first vestiges began, and the seeds were planted for what the show would become. Margery Tyrell as Jonquil played the young ingénue in love and discovering herself well, but Brienne remembered Catelyn saying the play was more about Jonquil’s self-discovery than her love story with Florian. But then again, it was the first read through. Things were sure to change.</p><p>Jaime Lannister however, was a different story. He used every part of his body to gesture the simplest of lines, the minutest it details. One of Florian’s early scenes was a soliloquy, wherein he told himself and the audience that he wasn’t a fool—he only saw things differently, and therefore that made him a fool to most people. During the line, “I only see, I only see!” Jaime threw his hands in the air in an expansive gesture that ended up almost knocking Brienne from her chair. Theon Greyjoy, one of Winterfell’s staple actors, and the actor for Florian’s companion in the current play, was the only one who couldn’t contain his laughter. Before the read through, Jaime did say it was his process—he purposefully overdid it to pinpoint the exact emotions he needed. However, no one was prepared for the actual show before the show.</p><p>“Is this real life?” Pod murmured to her about halfway through act one. Brienne wasn’t convinced it was.</p><p>Halfway through the show, Catelyn called a break. Most of the actors and Catelyn dispersed for coffee, water, cigarettes, or a bathroom break. It was just Brienne and Pod when Jaime was the first to stroll back in. Before taking his seat, Brienne hunched over her script, pretending to be engrossed in notes. Jaime leaned against the table, batted his golden eyelashes, and told her she more power in her delivery.</p><p>“I can tell,” he said, “that you haven’t been practicing.”</p><p>“It’s stage directions,” Pod said, defending her honor. “And why should she practice?”</p><p>Brienne tensed as Jaime laughed again—that cursed and obnoxious laugh. “Our wench fancies herself an actress…or at least she does when no one is looking,” Jaime replied, smirking. “She should make her stage when she gets the chance.”</p><p>She had no words. He called her a wench, which should have been the worst of it. She didn’t care. He could call her “wench” a thousand times in a thousand different universes, and it wouldn’t make a whit a difference.</p><p>No. He echoed her mother’s words, her same sentiments.</p><p>He didn’t get to do that.</p><p>She rose from her chair, taking advantage of her height. “Let me tell you something,” she said, sticking her finger at him, jamming it against that spot his t-shirt didn’t cover. “People like me…”</p><p>She paused. She hadn’t thought it all through. She said the first thing that came to her head in those fleeting moments living under the duress of his calculating green eyes. “people like me don’t get to,” she said, not satisfied, but sticking with it. She had no other choice.</p><p>“You just did.”</p><p>Pod tapped her shoulder, a silent plea to sit down. Sighing, she took her seat. Jaime followed, Brienne acutely aware of his watchful eye. Other actors began milling in as well, the fifteen minutes ending. Brienne called the reading to commence again. During act two, Jaime was as melodramatic as ever. Against herself, Brienne found she took a bit of that melodrama and inserted it into her reading, proclaiming, the end of the play <em>The Tale of Florian and Jonquil</em> after Margery Tyrell as Jonquil delivered the final line. She even began the slow and pronounced clap to commemorate the moment. Others joined. Jaime as well joined, leaning against his chair, and basking in the stage light.</p><p>After the actors left, Catelyn spoke privately with Brienne. “Did you see him? Can you believe it? What are we going to do? He worked in film too before this…you’d think he’d have some subtleties…”</p><p>She spoke in hushed, but nonetheless, panicked whispers. Catelyn expressed other concerns about Jaime and Margery having chemistry—did Brienne see her face? Brienne reminded chemistry was often earned between actors during rehearsal. She also worried about the fighting choreography, during which Brienne reassuringly pat her shoulder. She would have it covered. She’d already thought about it.</p><p>“Get him to listen,” Catelyn said. “If all else fails, at least no one can say our choreography wasn’t astounding.”</p><p>“Don’t worry,” Brienne said, already setting the scene. “When I take the stage, I’ll make him listen.”</p><p>“We’re starting those rehearsals soon. This week, I hope.”</p><p>Brienne grinned, but inwardly, she screamed with worry that her promise wasn’t premature, that maybe she couldn’t get Jaime Lannister, porn-star, to listen. Or if she could, (which, he had reminded her of her mother’s wisdom) she feared that he only would listen to later laugh at her expense.</p><p>What did it matter? People laughed at her all the time and probably without her even knowing most of the time. She could laugh too at others’ expense. It just wasn’t ever worth the effort before.</p><p>That night she clicked and she downloaded Jaime’s video.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hey all! thanks for reading. Updates will (hopefully) be weekly! :D And Cersei's soap character and soap opera is basked off of Erika Kane in All my Children, lol.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. The Kingslayer</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>For my non-theatre people: "blocking" is planned movement on stage :) When you "block" a scene, you plan the movements :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>For the records, Brienne had every actor sign in before each rehearsal began. <em>The Tale of Florian and Jonquil</em> had an extensive cast, and it was easier for her and Podrick to keep track of the entering actors that way, rather than count and keep track that way. It wasn’t so much of an issue at present, as much of the early scenes only called for a few actors, but towards the end it would pose an issue. That day, only Jaime and Theon were called. Catelyn needed to block their first scenes, and Brienne waited with her large stage manager’s script, ready to transcript Catelyn’s directions. For some inane reason, Jaime was the first actor to enter the theatre, caramel macchiato in hand.</p><p>Brienne gulped as Jaime sauntered in. She had become acquainted with a different Jaime Lannister of late, one with far less clothes. This one had more clothes but more snark, more obstinance, more flamboyance. He was a bigger pain in her ass, and that was saying something. Jaime Lannister on screen made her question a few things about herself.</p><p>He smiled. She grimaced back. “What’s wrong?” Pod asked, but she brushed him off, saying she was fine. She wasn’t fine. She was going to dissolve into a puddle and Pod would have to sweep up her remains, because Jaime’s film had been replaying in her head since she sat glued to her desk as she played the film for herself. She watched the whole damn thing. She watched an entire porn film with Jaime Lannister in a starring role.</p><p>Alright, it wasn’t really a porn film. They didn’t show…everything. Though indulgent, <em>Mhysa</em> was more so about the developing emotional relationship between Jaime’s character and the Dornish actress Ellaria Sand’s character, but the sex scenes were frequent. Frequent, and spicy. They were less graphic and more sensual, the director tasteful in choice of camera and long and lingering closeups of blissful faces, but the Westeros film board was known to be rather prudish in their guidelines for sexual depictions. They were far less prudish in Essos, where the film was more readily available. The twenty minutes of sex in the ninety-minute film made Mhysa head over the edge for the Westerosi film board, though the sex scenes weren’t really that shocking.</p><p>But Jaime Lannister was.</p><p>Somewhere halfway through the movie, Brienne stopped thinking of Jaime’s character as Jaime and fully as the “Kingslayer,” as the character was called. She felt as though she was now the voyeur, peeking into a couple’s intimate life. More terrifying, she found herself mesmerized by the caresses, the lingering looks, the way Jaime gripped the actress’ hips, and the way he kissed. Not Jaime, but the Kingslayer. Only the Kingslayer.</p><p>But the Kingslayer was Jaime, and Jaime was an absolute arse. She thought if Jaime wasn’t an arse, or she lived in a world where Jaime wasn’t in their show and she had no inklings of her natural demeanor, she’d maybe think about touching herself while she watched the movie. In that imaginary world, it was also where she didn’t feel awkward or self-conscious after. As it was, she always did, and that kept her hands firmly clasped in her lap. Also as it was, Jaime was an arse. Arses weren’t touch-worthy.</p><p>“You should know,” Jaime said, setting his coffee down at the stage manager’s table and signing in, and reminded Brienne that Jaime was an arse, “that there’s something I have to tell you.”</p><p>Brienne and Pod waited for Jaime to make the looping J that constituted as his signature. He clicked the pen and set it back on the table, smirking at the two in an attempt to draw out the suspense, suspense he hoped would last.</p><p>“Spit it out,” Brienne ordered, “Spit it out King—”</p><p>She stopped herself. The theatre was relatively dark, would he see her blush? “Why are you blushing?” Pod asked, and Brienne cursed, avoiding Jaime. Whatever she did, she could not look at Jaime.</p><p>He doesn’t know I almost called him Kingslayer. It’s fine.</p><p>Jaime’s brows furrowed. “Were you going to call me ‘Kingslayer?’Have you seen my film?”</p><p>
  <em>SHIT.</em>
</p><p>She had an idea. “Catelyn and I watched the film when you were cast in,” she said, calm. It was a convincing performance. “We were doing research.”</p><p>“You did? Why wasn’t I invited?”</p><p>Brienne kicked Pod with her foot. He grimaced and asked why she did that. She shushed him. Jaime watched the exchange with a quizzical eye.</p><p>“It was research,” Brienne said. “We review everyone’s resume.”</p><p>There it was, that damn smirk. “Like it?” he asked, wicked.</p><p>She crossed her arms. “I found it tolerable.”</p><p>“Just tolerable,” he mused. “Shame.”</p><p>“Brienne? Why wasn’t I invited?”</p><p>She grit her teeth. “We will talk about it later Pod.”</p><p>“Brienne….”</p><p>“Podrick, I believe our actor has some news.”</p><p>“I do,” Jaime chirped. “Important as well.”</p><p>“Speak,” Brienne ordered. “What’s the news?”</p><p>“My father is going to come to a rehearsal in two days. See how things are going.”</p><p>Pod stared. Brienne nervously swept her hair back, knowing Catelyn wasn’t going to like the news. She resolved to tell her after rehearsal ended, which is just what she did. (Once again, during rehearsal Theon couldn’t keep his laughing in check in regards to Jaime’s overacting.) Catelyn cursed, but admitted she knew it would likely have happened anyway.</p><p>“We are going to have to change things,” she said, pulling out her planner. “When he comes in two days, we’ll block Florian and Jonquil’s first meeting by the water. We’re going to have to choreograph the fight scenes next week, is that alright?”</p><p>“Of course,” Brienne replied.</p><p>“You’re not upset, are you?”</p><p>“Course not,” she assured. “I understand.”</p><p>That afternoon after rehearsal, Pod texted Brienne, asking about the “watch party without him,” and Jaime’s film. Brienne admitted she lied to Jaime and wanted to watch it herself, see how good of an actor he was.</p><p>
  <em>So…did you like it?</em>
</p><p><em>It was fine</em>, Brienne texted back.</p><p>Two hours later, Brienne was staring at her open closet again when Pod texted H<em>ey, the film was pretty good! And Jaime’s not bad. Why is he still overacting at our rehearsal</em>? Brienne told herself she would text him back later.</p><p>She had a problem. If Tywin Lannister was coming to watch a rehearsal…</p><p>Well. She wasn’t going to dress up for Jaime, the Kingslayer, because she had nothing to prove to him. What did she have to prove to his father? Her work spoke for itself. Truly however, Brienne was damned if she did and damned if she didn’t. If she did they could have easily said she was playing a part, trying to show off and failing. If she didn’t she was a dowdy stage manager who didn’t care about her appearance. She preferred the latter option.</p><p>Much to her surprise, Pod wore a button down and combed his hair the day Tywin was slated to show. In addition to asking why she didn't text him back, he asked why Brienne looked the same.</p><p>“I also happened to comb my hair,” Brienne replied, though it needed a cut. Usually she didn’t let it get to her shoulders.</p><p>“But…Tywin Lannister!”</p><p>“Pod, if you think you have to wear a costume because someone with a lot of money is coming into the theatre, you’re mistaken.”</p><p>“You’re just saying that because your father is also rich and you don’t have anything to prove.”</p><p>“My father hasn’t given me any money since I started to work with Renly,” she replied.</p><p>“But if he asked, he would right?”</p><p>She shrugged. “I am not going to ask my father for money when I am perfectly capable of affording things by myself.”</p><p>“You’re so sensible.”</p><p>“Why am I here?” she asked, grinning.</p><p>Soon after, Jaime Lannister walked in as Brienne looked over her blocking notes by the side of the stage. He eyed her, though she couldn’t imagine why. She wore the same uniform she always had, only this particular sweat suit was dark blue.</p><p>“Blue suits you,” he decided, appraising her. “You look almost tolerable in this costume.”</p><p>“It’s not a costume Kingslayer,” she muttered, snapping her script shut. “It’s me.”</p><p>He chuckled. “Oh, we’re doing those now, are we? Alright then, wench.”</p><p>“My name is Brienne.”</p><p>“And my name is Jaime, not Kingslayer. But if you insist on these roles…I’ll be your Kingslayer, and you a wench.”</p><p>She rolled her eyes at just the right moment: Tywin Lannister walked in. She held out her hand and hastily introduced herself, only to hastily stick her hand in her pocket when he didn’t take it. Thankfully, she and Pod didn’t have to do all the flatteries for long, as Catelyn walked in and thanked him for the funds, and told him she hoped he would enjoy the rehearsal. His response was a “humph,” followed by a glanced around the theatre. He called the Northern style look of the theatre a mere “quaint.” Rightfully, Catelyn beamed at him, properly holding her tongue but rightfully insulted.</p><p>Brienne supposed you could say “quaint” about Winterfell Theatre, though she preferred “grand.” To Brienne, who regarded theatres as a more sacred place than churches, Winterfell was the most enchanting she ever entered, with a ceiling painted to match the night sky. It was a proscenium theatre, the arch around carved in ironwood, with dark marble pillars on both sifes. The seats in the audience were upholstered in bluish grey, the handles painted with the ceiling’s starry theme. When sitting in the audience during a performance, it offered the illusion of sitting in the stars. It was an old theatre, and not as new as the Lannister’s. Brienne saw pictures of it. She much preferred the “quaint” Winterfell theatre, a theatre preserved from the days of old. It was also the way Catelyn’s late husband Ned Stark preferred. No matter what, Catelyn would keep the old style rather than update the same way the Lannisters did, with their tacky tastes of red velvet and gold furnishings.</p><p>For someone who produced style over substance plays, and for someone with an overdone modern theatre, Tywin Lannister was surprisingly no frills—so much so that Brienne wondered where Jaime inherited his love for frills. (Though then again, with Jaime that didn’t translate to dress. Only likes and acting style.) Tywin was dressed in a simple brown suit and sport’s jacket, head shaved with the subtlest of beards—a duller shade of gold when compared to his son’s hair, though Brienne attributed that to age. He sat to the left of the theatre in the very last seat on the third row, waiting for Catelyn to begin rehearsals. Brienne texted Margaery, asking where she was.</p><p>She arrived five minutes later, late. Tywin was not amused. Though red and flustered Catelyn kept calm, managing to jump into rehearsals. Blocking rehearsals, in Brienne’s opinion, were the least fun and the most tedious. She much preferred later stage rehearsals when lines and blocking were memorized, and the actors could work on their characters. However, Catelyn worked deftly, getting Margery and Jaime through the scene while instructing them on what she wanted to see. Brienne kept an eye on Jaime, wondering if he would continue to overblow all his lines as he had been. Under the watchful eye on his father, he didn’t.</p><p>They only had a few rehearsals, but he was still over-emoting, only slightly less than what he had been during their first read-through. He assured it was his process, to dial back with every rehearsal till he found what was “right.” It made no sense to Brienne, but he assured her it was because his first acting teacher instructed that it was always easier to dial back than bring more power as rehearsals went on, so he always wanted to have more to work with. He needed frills. Jaime exuded more, exuded extravagance, even when he wore only jeans and a t-shirt. Yet for his father, he acted akin to how he did in the film. His acting was good. He still had his script and the stage was nowhere near where it should be yet for the play, but Brienne believed.</p><p>When Catelyn wanted to run through the scene beginning to end, Margaery began by mimicking the walking off and humming as the script denoted, followed by a mimicking of walking into the water. As in legend Florian first spied Jonquil bathing with other maidens, the play depicted much the same, the only difference being that the play had Jonquil veer away from the others, so the first meeting between the main couple could occur. As Catelyn told them all during the first read-through, Florian would have a platform to kneel and look at Jonquil down below from, blue and aqua lighting suggesting the water from the stream she bathed in. Margaery even said she wouldn’t mind forgoing clothes for the scene, though Catelyn assured she didn’t have to, and undergarments would suffice. Without the set yet, Jaime and Margaery mimicked as they could, moving through the blocking.</p><p>“Forgive me, maiden,” Jaime said, holding his hands over his eyes, as the script denoted Florian would keep hid eyes covered, “I will not look.”</p><p>“Who are you?” Margaery asked, practicing moving her body as if she were truly in water.</p><p>“Florian.”</p><p>“Florian,” Margaery repeated. “Shall I tell you my name?”</p><p>“I can think of no greater honor than to know your name.”</p><p>He said that line their read-through as if he was an opera singer, but now he sounded a every bit the sincere and starstruck boy, bewitched by the sound of his lady’s voice. Brienne watched Jaime as Florian and Margaery as Jonquil, making sure they followed the blocking Catelyn gave. They did. She told herself she watched both equally, but really it was only Jaime she watched. Similar to his role in Kingslayer but distinct…less sure of himself, less confident, still there with the early stirrings of love.</p><p>“He’s good,” Pod whispered to her. “Think he’ll keep it up?”</p><p>“Let’s hope.”</p><p>After a few lines of banter the scene ended with Jonquil grasping Florian’s arm and bringing him into the water with her. Jaime read from the script as Florian: I would not look at you. So Jonquil took a ribbon from her hair and wrapped it around his eyes, Margery walking through the action. She took Jaime as Florian through the “water,” with her, and the scene ended with the two “swimming” together, Jonquil guiding a blindfolded Florian.</p><p>“When shall we meet again?” Florian asked, and Catelyn called the end of scene. Pod clapped. Cateyln praised the two on a job well done. Then silence fell over the theatre.</p><p>Eyes turned to Tywin Lannister, sitting crossed-legged with an unreadable expression. He rose and walked closer to the stage. He wasn’t an actor by trade but he knew how to get everyone to look at him. No one breathed until he spoke. Pod, Catelyn, and Brienne all sighed in relief when he congratulated Catelyn, nodding in approval. He then looked at Jaime, who waited. It was subtle, but he wavered. Nerves.</p><p>Tywin gave his son a nod, and Jaime’s tension dissolved. Tywin gave the bare minimum, no frills, yet it was enough for Jaime.</p><p>
  <em>Odd.</em>
</p><p>Tywin pointed at Margery. Brienne didn’t know what to expect. She played the part well, and more rehearsals would sharpen her timing. It was why Tywin’s next statement came as a shock.</p><p>“You,” he said. “You should be in All My Fledglings.”</p><p>Margaery blushed in flattery, but said she didn’t think they were casting. Besides, she was working on The Tale of Florian and Jonquil.</p><p>“There’s a new part coming, actually,” Tywin stated. “You’d be suited for that, not play acting.”</p><p>“But I’m Jonquil,” Margaery replied.</p><p>“That’s why I think someone else should be cast.”</p><p>Brienne’s jaw dropped. Catelyn fumed, nearly dropping her script.</p><p>“Don’t be so alarmed,” Tywin said. “You can cast another, I’m sure.”</p><p>“What? Who would I cast?” she demanded, poised enough not to lunge at him. “We had been wanting to work with her for years!”</p><p>It was true. Margaery was a popular actress, and her and Jaime were a draw for The Tale of Florian and Jonquil. Yet Tywin had no sympathy.</p><p>“Figure it out. She will be better suited for the show. I’m sure there are others you can cast.”</p><p>“But we already put out adverts,” Catelyn said, grasping at the few straws she had left. “It’s done! Margaery agreed.”</p><p>“Margaery is under our contract,” Tywin said. “She is going to go where we deem.”</p><p>Sheepishly, Margaery apologized as Catelyn lamented about the unfairness. Tywin wasn’t swayed.</p><p><em>Sansa</em>, Brienne thought. <em>Sansa could be Jonquil.</em></p><p>She planned on saying it. She was about to. But then came Jaime. He basked in the stage before he announced it, his hands on his hips as if there was no other idea as daring and perfect as the one he just had.</p><p>In a grand flourish, grander than all his overemoting, Jaime gestured to Brienne. He said, “Jonquil is right there.”</p><p>The scene instantly shifted. Now, all eyes focused on her—sweatpants wearing, dowdy her. She told him people like her didn’t get stages. He gave her one anyway.</p><p>“Go on,” he said. “Come here. I know you like to be here. Show us the monologue.”</p><p>“I…I stage manage. I choreograph fight scenes,” she stammered. “I don’t act.”</p><p>“We all do,” Jaime replied. “Every day. But you also like to do it on stage.”</p><p>Silence. Catelyn always said you could hear silence in an audience. It was the collective sharp intake of breath, the collective concentration and wonder what would happen next during a show. That was Brienne. She was the actor, those in the theatre were her audience. They waited. She heard the silence.</p><p>Tywin broke it before Brienne could. Cruelty inlaid with his snicker, cruelty Brienne knew all too well. It didn’t make it hurt less.</p><p>“You want this beast to be Jonquil? Or perhaps she’ll be Florian and you’ll be Jonquil.”</p><p>No one laughed. It was a mercy, and there was that, at least. No one laughed like they used to. Catelyn even tried to stop her from leaving the theatre. Brienne apologized, but she couldn’t stay. Her life wasn’t a performance for others to comment on. Her life was hers.</p><p>But Jaime was right. They all were assigned roles. And with assigned roles, came performances.</p><p>She sincerely hoped they all enjoyed her grand exit from the theatre.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. The Deal Maker</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Catelyn called Brienne, and when that didn’t work, texted her.<em> I am so sorry Brienne. I know there’s nothing I can say, but don’t listen to him. You’re beautiful.</em></p><p><em>Bullshit,</em> she wanted to text back. <em>Don’t tell me I’m beautiful in this mess. Tell me something that’s true, something I’ve worked on. Tell me you wouldn’t trade working with me for the world.</em></p><p>Frustrated as she was as the responses, the embarrassment was worse. She shouldn’t have walked out like that. Tywin was going to cut funds for the show, and it had been all her fault. She cursed herself. She should have just grit her teeth and dealt with it. It wasn’t as though as she hadn’t heard worse.</p><p>Jaime.</p><p>That was the matter—that smug, arrogant, kingslaying and porn-acting fool. It was all because of him. If he hadn’t made that outlandish suggestion… if he didn’t look at her with a devilish look in her eyes…</p><p>She stood in the kitchen, jabbing her spoon into the pint of strawberry ice cream, only pausing when she got a text from Pod. He was slightly more comforting, texting that Tywin was out of line, and he was sorry.</p><p><em>Sorry too,</em> she texted back.<em> Wasn’t professional to walk out.</em></p><p>
  <em>Don’t blame you.</em>
</p><p>She was about to ask if he had heard anything from Catelyn about the status of the show, when her phone dinged with a new message. She had to look twice. Surely he wouldn’t text her.</p><p>
  <em>Hey. Can u meet me at the coffee shop? Same one from the other day.</em>
</p><p>Jaime? What was she even going to tell him? That his father insulted her, and wanting to have coffee with her rung hollow?</p><p>She opted for the coy, texting a simple <em>why?</em></p><p><em>Want to talk,</em> he replied moments later. <em>When can u meet?</em></p><p>
  <em>What do you want to talk about?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I’ll tell you in twenty minutes, if you can meet me there. Can u?</em>
</p><p><em>Fine,</em> she smashed on her keypad, refraining from informing him texting out “you” wasn’t too terribly difficult. <em>Twenty minutes.</em></p><p>She put the ice cream up and headed for the coffee shop. She had every right to refuse the meeting—there was no way his rendezvous wasn’t baked in a desire to taunt. It’s what they all did. However, she figured she could sway Jaime to sway his father to continue funding the show. She’d step down if she had too—she had Pod and she trusted him. He was practically her apprentice and he had been training to be a stage manager. Her sacrifice, and she was sure she would need to give it, was to not be at rehearsals, and not witness the process of collaborative writing and creating. Yes, she lived to see written words on a script come alive and breathe, but the thought of something happening to Winterfell long term was the greater loss. They needed this show. They needed Tywin’s money. She had no choice. She had to volunteer to step down.</p><p>She was first in, and sat in a corner table, waiting. He strolled in a few minutes later, nodding at her and ordering coffee at the counter first. Five minutes later, he was sitting across from her with his caramel macchiato with extra caramel and chocolate, along with another drink. He slipped it to her, a CT written on the rim. Chai tea.</p><p>“Thought you’d want one,” he said.</p><p>She took the cup, begrudgingly thanking him. She waited for him to say something, but it appeared he was waiting for her.</p><p>Well, he invited her. She wasn’t going to speak first.</p><p>He leaned back in his chair, sipping his drink. “Well,” he began, after long seconds ticked by, “rehearsal today could have gone smoother.”</p><p>“Really?”</p><p>He stirred the whip cream in his drink. “My father can be cruel. I’m sorry he said that. No matter how true it is, pointing it out does nothing.”</p><p>Brienne stared, vaguely amazed. Out of the three people who talked to her after the debacle in the theatre, Jaime Lannister was the one who understood the most. Jaime. Lannister. Porn Star. Kingslayer.</p><p>As if following her train of thought, he told her a brief story about being a little boy with long hair, gesturing to where it hit—about around his shoulders, where Brienne’s hair currently hit.</p><p>“I liked my hair,” he admitted. “I knew how to take care of it too. You have to use coconut oil sometimes, but it’s not too bothersome. You should try it.”</p><p>She waited for the story to be relevant. He obliged. “Anyway, because our hair was both long, I thought it was funny when the nanny mistook my sister and I,” he said. “You know, Cersei. She’s on the show—”</p><p>“I know,” she interjected.</p><p>“Well, one day,” he continued, “my father told me my attitude, demeanor, and hair looked too girlish and he sent me to the hairdresser. My hair was clipped short. I cried. He told me crying was for women.”</p><p>She recalled Tywin’s comments. Perhaps she’ll be Florian, and you’ll be Jonquil.</p><p>“After my mother died, my father became bitter,” Jaime muttered, as if that made up for the experience he went through.</p><p>It didn’t, not to Brienne. Her father was bitter too after her mother died…so was her mother, after…</p><p>“What’s wrong?”</p><p>“Nothing,” she replied, reminding herself not to remember, not to go there. Not in front of him. Anyway, the point still stood: her parents had every right to be bitter to her, but they never were. They never took their anger out on Brienne.</p><p>No child deserved that, not even if the child would grow up to be Jaime Lannister. “I’m sorry,” she said.</p><p>He shook his head. “You didn’t come here to hear me cry about my father. I have a proposition for you.”</p><p>He glanced around, checking to make sure no one was eavesdropping. No one was, and it wasn’t as though they were involved in espionage. They were theatre people, and though theatre people were harebrained, they weren’t the sort that would carry potentially classified secrets that coffee shop patrons couldn’t be privy too. However, Jaime still spoke in hushed whispers, leaning in.</p><p>“I think you should be Jonquil,” he whispered.</p><p>She sipped her tea.</p><p>“Oh. You think I’m joking.”</p><p>“You called me ugly,” she reminded.</p><p>“I did not call you ugly,” he clarified.</p><p>“You insinuated it.”</p><p>“You’re ugly and tedious. There. Now you can’t say I called you ugly. Drink your tea wench.”</p><p>In protest she pushed the tea aside. He frowned. “Come on,” he goaded, raising his cup. “Come on, a toast for a truce?”</p><p>“You need trust for a truce.”</p><p>“I trust you.”</p><p>He looked different across from her than he did above her on the stage, more like the child must have looked, who cried after his father forced him to get a haircut. She raised her cup. With her tea and his caramel macchiato, they toasted.</p><p>“Very good,” he commented. “Now, listen to what I have to say, would you? It’s important. My father wants the show to fail.”</p><p>She almost coughed on her tea. “I’m sorry? He donated money to us in exchange for a percent of ticket sales, and to cast you. That was the agreement.”</p><p>Jaime shook his head. “It’s not as simple. Before Ned Stark died, he managed to anger a lot of people. My father was one of those people. Now, Ned was a good director, but overall naïve.”</p><p>Brienne never met Ned, but Catelyn loved him as a man and respected him as a theatre artist. It was evident in the way she ran Winterfell Theatre now. It was all for him. On Catelyn’s behalf, she was insulted. “How so?” she had to ask.</p><p>“Good old Ned believed theatre should first and foremost, have something impactful to say,” Jaime answered. “Money didn’t matter. So when Robert Baratheon asked him to leave the theatre and join him in film…”</p><p>Brienne knew the story: Ned left Winterfell Theatre when Robert Baratheon asked him to be his partner in his new film production company. The Lannisters helped fund it, probably only because Cersei Lannister was married to Robert. The film production crumbled when Robert died of a heart attack on set one day. Ned tried to finish the production company’s first film, but when he died in an on-set accident involving a bow and arrow stunt gone wrong, production stopped, and the film company dissolved. The Lannisters took their money elsewhere, namely to television production, and back to the theatre.</p><p>Jaime continued the story. According to his yarn, Tywin wanted to end Winterfell theatre, because it was important to Ned, and before Ned died, he managed to convince a lot of people that the primary purpose of art wasn’t to make money, but to inspire. People once loyal to the Lannisters were leaving to do their own projects. Tywin couldn’t have that.</p><p>“My father’s plan was to give you money for this show, then ruin you all. I was to play Florian and do a horrible job, among other things.”</p><p>“Margery Tyrell leaving was another, wasn’t it?”</p><p>Jaime nodded. “It is true, they are casting a new role in All my Fledglings, but the plan was to make her leave and have a new actress cast. Preferably someone bad.”</p><p>“Wait. You want me to play Jonquil so this show can fail?”</p><p>“No. I want you to play Jonquil because I think you are good.”</p><p>“But…you told me I need practice,” she stammered, recalling the first time they met She dialed back, wondering if this whole thing wasn’t some elaborate ploy. “And if this is all true…why are you telling me?”</p><p>“Because maybe I have a reason to not want this show to fail.”</p><p>He leaned back in his chair, idly sipping his drink. The whole image didn’t exactly appease her. “Why?” she goaded. “You have every reason to want it to!”</p><p>“Name one.”</p><p>“You’re a Lannister.”</p><p>“What does that have to do with anything?”</p><p>She felt her cheeks grow hot. “Uh…well…”</p><p>“I want to be a good actor in my own right,” he said. “If this fails, if I purposely overact…how will that look?”</p><p>“I don’t know, you seemed to have enjoyed yourself the past few days.”</p><p>“Who doesn’t like to ham it up?”</p><p>She shrugged.</p><p>“Look…” His expression changed. “If I do this for my family, I’ll never be in anything else, not unless my father or brother produces it, and how will that look?” He sighed. “My chances elsewhere are ruined.”</p><p>“Because of what happened with Aerys?”</p><p>“You’re breaching the contract,” he deadpanned.</p><p>“Kingslayer,” she deadpanned back, “the contract is for rehearsals. We shall not talk about Aerys at rehearsals. We are outside of rehearsals. No breach has been made.”</p><p>He grit his teeth. “Yes, because of what happened with that. Now can we move on?”</p><p>“We have.”</p><p>“I want to be good,” he stated. “And I think you want to be good too.”</p><p>She crossed her arms. “You heard your father. Maybe I should be Florian and you Jonquil.”</p><p>“I already started learning my lines for Florian.”</p><p>“Sansa deserves it more,” Brienne said. “She’s wanted to act for a long time.”</p><p>“And you haven’t?”</p><p>She only half-listened when he talked about how his father needed to think the show was going to be sabotaged. Casting Sansa, the daughter of a prominent director who passed away not too terribly long ago, would spike interest. Yet casting Brienne…</p><p>“Take up some space on stage,” Jaime said. “It will be a lot, but the theatre can handle it.”</p><p>“Why should I?” she demanded. “You think the same thing about me as anyone.”</p><p>“Do you want me to lie and say I think you’re pretty? I think you’d look a lot better with a different outfit, and I think you’re as tedious as you are unappealing. People have lied to me before, even when I know they are. And yet they do it anyway. I’m not going to lie to you. Return the favor. Don’t lie to me. Tell me you want to act.”</p><p>“I want to act,” she stated, because he knew that well enough already.</p><p>“Now tell me what you want.”</p><p>“I want you to shove it.”</p><p>He smirked. “Besides that.”</p><p>“I want this show to be a success.”</p><p>“And you want to be Jonquil.”</p><p>Was this how it would be, the two staring at each-other, waiting for one to break the silence? He wants it bad, she thought. He wants this so bad.</p><p>
  <em>He needs me.</em>
</p><p>She was needed, a different way than they needed her at Winterfell Theatre. A different way than Renly needed her. His integrity as an artist was in the palm of her hands.</p><p><em>Careful</em>, she warned herself.<em> Too much of this and she’d go drunk off the power.</em></p><p>“Be my Jonquil,” he said. “Take up space. Have variety, stage manager.”</p><p>Her mother said something similar, in a different situation. I want to have variety, she said. She meant it in terms of the roles she took, but Brienne thought about the roles she gave herself. Was it so strange, to think she could have only one?</p><p>
  <em>Make her proud.</em>
</p><p>“I’ll be Jonquil,” she said.</p><p>He raised his cup. “A toast then, my Jonquil.”</p><p>She toasted with him, once more. He grinned, and that grin that should have frightened her intoxicated her.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. The Twins</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I apologize for the long wait, but I have another chapter at last!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It took a few days after Margaery’s exit for matters to settle and Brienne to be dubbed the new Jonquil, much to the unanimous shock of the Winterfell Theatre Company, but rehearsals were slated to continue later into the week with the casting changes, the entire cast and crew waiting with baited breath. Brienne had to admit however when they called the production meeting to make the announcement that the shock was brief, Pod even starting a round of applause for the new Jonquil. Even Jaime joined the applause, smirking at her the whole time.</p><p>Still, the night before her first rehearsal, after copious time practicing by herself to make sure she didn’t make a fool out of herself the first day, Catelyn called Brienne and told her she didn’t have to do the show. Privately, she admitted she was certain that the Lannisters were up to something, and if Brienne didn’t want to be warped in, she would understand. She even said that maybe leaving the Winterfell Theatre up and running after Ned’s death was a mistake. She could call the whole thing off and go to Dorne and start working there, as they had a good theatre scene. Brienne could come too if she wanted and be her assistant.</p><p>It was at that moment that Brienne faked needing to take a pie out of the oven and hung up. Brienne sent Jaime a simple text, reading we need to let Catelyn be in on the plan. A passionate quarrel through the texting thread followed between the two of them. Simply put, Jaime didn’t want Catelyn to know the truth, while Brienne found it necessary. Jaime won, his argument boiling down the greater risked they posed if more people were in on the truth, though Brienne still didn’t buy it. Art, she texted him as calmly as she could, could flourish the brightest when circumstances were at their worst. In all caps, he responded <em>MY ASS IS ON THE LINE IF THIS IS FOUND OUT AND SO IS YOURS WE DO NOT TELL WE DO NOT TELL WE DO NOT TELL</em> and she knew he meant business if he wasn’t using the bad grammar abbreviations common of his texting.</p><p>Ultimately Brienne relented, letting Jaime win this battle. He was a stubborn man, and she got the feeling more battles would arise. With more battles would come higher stakes, and there would inevitably be another skirmish that would be too much for her to lose. Sending Cat one final text, a simple, <em>the pie is fine, I will do it and I will flourish</em>, she then looked at her options. Unable to tell Catelyn, she considered telling Pod. Quickly after thinking it, she deemed it a bad idea, as Pod was terrible at secrets. Once, when one of the technicians who was supposed to run the spotlight for the show got sick, leaving Brienne to do it herself, she spent the whole day before the show teaching Pod how to run cues so she could do the damn spotlight herself. She told him not to tell anyone, and of course he told Theon, who told all the other actors. Telling Pod was a bad idea, and even if she didn’t fully trust Jaime yet, she had to at least pretend like she did.</p><p>There was one woman however who could keep secrets like no one else. She was also Brienne’s best friend for all intents and purposes, and best friends never counted when secrets were involved.</p><p>“Hey Sansa,” Brienne called on video through her laptop, gathering ingredients for the pie she already told Catelyn she was baking. The grocer had a sale on Dornish pears, and with her abundance Brienne decided pear pie it was.</p><p>“Are you baking a pie?”</p><p>“Maybe,” Brienne said, peeling and slicing pears. “Hey. Are you away from your mum?”</p><p>To the story that followed Sansa listened raptly, blinking only twice in surprise as Brienne relayed the broad strokes of the story along with some of the finer details, such as the fact that Jaime Lannister ordered the frilliest and most sugar-laden coffee drinks in the shop. “You cannot tell anyone,” Brienne said, moving her computer to the other side of the kitchen where the stove was so she could cook the pears for the pie filling. “You cannot tell Theon. You cannot tell Arya. And you certainly cannot tell your mother. If she knows...”</p><p>“No. She can’t know this,” Sansa said. “If she knows she’s being sabotaged she’ll retaliate and that would put the theatre under.” She sighed, shaking her head. “Brienne. We can’t let the theatre be abandoned. The place was everything my father ever wanted.”</p><p>Brienne understood. Earlier times Sansa told Brienne she never appreciated the theatre when her father was alive, and the least she could do was make sure his legacy remained now. “I got this,” Brienne said, giving her oath. It was an uneasy oath, and she preferred steady, unyielding ones, but it was an oath.</p><p>“Are you sure you want to be Jaime Lannister’s leading lady?”</p><p>Well. When she put it like that…</p><p>“What choice do I have?” She asked, stirring the pot. “Winterfell Theatre is my home too.”</p><p>“Jaime isn’t a terrible actor,” Sansa surmised. “That porn film though doesn’t exactly lend itself to his credit though.”</p><p>“It’s not really a porn film,” Brienne said.</p><p>“You watched it?”</p><p>“No, I did my research on it,” Brienne lied.</p><p>“Either way, there are safer actors to cast as Florian.”</p><p>“Well, the public loves a redemption arc,” Brienne suggested. “Hopefully they also love ugly duckling underdog stories.”</p><p>Sansa narrowed her eyes. “Brienne. Own that stage.”</p><p>“I’m sorry it can’t be you.”</p><p>“I have plenty of time,” she assured. “Just give me a piece of that pie later. Why are you making one anyway?”</p><p>“Because I told Catelyn I was to break off a phone call, but I was texting Lannister, but now I need to bring pie to the theatre tomorrow so Cat doesn’t expect…seven hells how did I get myself into this?”</p><p>“Brienne. Breathe.”</p><p>Brienne nodded, promising Sansa a baked lemon cake later as she focused on breathing and pie making. Bright and early the next morning, she arrived to the theatre with pear pie and hand, Podrick also there much earlier than he needed to be. Panicked, he asked her several questions about rehearsals and how he should run things, even though they had gone over it already. She reiterated what she had always been taught: the stage manager must make sure the director had the freedom from the technical and business trappings of rehearsal so the art could flourish.</p><p>“Got it,” Podrick said, though he still fidgeted with nerves. “Should I sweep the stage?”</p><p>Brienne nodded, realizing unconsciously that she had it in her head she would have to sweep, even though she wasn’t the stage manager anymore. She told Pod she would even help him, but he assured he could do it himself.</p><p>“Practice,” he insisted, before getting distracted by the pie.</p><p>“For lunch,” she said. “I thought we could all have a slice. But save one for Sansa.”</p><p>He reluctantly took the pie and set it aside for lunchtime while Brienne headed backstage to the makeup rooms, sitting in one of chairs. Pulling her script out, she marked all her lines in pink highlight. Admittedly the sight still thrilled her. She had never been able to highlight lines before. She had a mind to practice until rehearsal officially began—as the importance of this first rehearsal could not be understated— but she forgot momentarily she hated the mirrors that lined the walls, but was quickly reminded when she saw herself in her black hoodie, holding her script. She understood their function, but they were never a function she needed before as a stage manager, and the last thing she wanted while she rehearsed was to see herself speak Jonquil’s lines of love. It was enough to hear her own voice declare love, but to see herself? Perhaps this whole thing would fail. Perhaps Jaime had been concocting this elaborate scheme and he truly did want Winterfell Theatre to fall.</p><p>Then again, if he was lying, he seemed too dumb to think of a plan that intricate. He also had too much ego to want to be a part of a bad show. Due to fate, she was the best he got, and he was going to try his best.</p><p>She regarded her freckled face, full lips and dull hair. Not pretty, but a person. A person worthy to be on a stage. Jaime was going to try, so she would try to.</p><p>I will not make a fool of myself I will not make a fool of myself I am strong and powerful and I—</p><p>“Florian,” she spoke with a flourish, rising from the chair, holding her script in her hands. “You say this is a beginning. I say this is an end of one life, as I wish to be your equal…”</p><p>She couldn’t be loud and project in her apartment, too afraid her neighbors would hear and call her a lunatic. With no one backstage and in the makeup room, Brienne’s voice echoed off the mirrors. If she was not beautiful, she would woo with her voice. Her mother always said she had a lovely voice. She always managed to make people listen as a stage manager. Why wouldn’t this be any different? She surged, continuing to read and rehearse one of Jonquil’s first big speeches, and in it she spoke of her situation and disappointment with the placement of women, and how she expected Florian to treat her kindly and fairly.</p><p>“If we are to fall, and I believe we are,” she spoke, throwing and deepening her voice for Florian’s next line that broke the monologue, his “Can you fall for me?” She continued on to her natural voice again, her Jonquil voice, reciting “it is not a question of can. It is when. But if we are, we will do this together. We will fall together, we will be right together.”</p><p>Right. Such a word, but as her voice carried, and she understood what Jonquil wanted, she felt right. And why shouldn’t she? She was right. She could do this. She—</p><p>“Well, well, well. What do we have here?”</p><p>She closed the script with a thud at the new voice and new interloper. Brienne had to be at least one foot taller than her interloper, yet for all intents and purposes, her cold green eyes sweeping up and down her form, she towered over Brienne.</p><p>“Excuse me,” Brienne said, squeezing her voice out of the seizing gaze of the intruder, “But what are you doing here?”</p><p>“Do you even know who I am?”</p><p>Yes, she knew immediately that it was none other Cersei Lannister who stepped in on her, though she had no iota of a clue why she was even there. For all she knew, <em>All my Fledglings</em> was supposed to be filming, though Brienne wasn’t up to date with the filming schedule of terrible soap operas.</p><p>“Cersei,” Brienne said. “Hi.”</p><p>She clicked her tongue. “Greetings.”</p><p>Brienne shuffled her sneakered feet. “Er…what are you doing here?”</p><p>“Came to see my brother,” she replied, crossing her arms. “And his new leading…lady. If that’s what we are to say.”</p><p>Brienne’s cheeks turned hot. It was faint, but there was the tiniest of smirks across Cersei’s painted crimson lips. She was reminded of what would happen opening night…a thousand Cerseis would have that same smirk, wanting her to fail. Expecting her to fail.</p><p>“Well, go on,” Cersei said, waving her hand dismissively. “Don’t let me bother you. An actress should never be bothered. I only wanted to see what all the fuss was about at Winterfell.”</p><p>“As you can see, the makeup room is lovely,” Brienne said.</p><p>Awkward silence encroached. “Well…ugh, though now they are far lovelier, to have your image in the mirrors.”</p><p>She thought the flattery would so some good. Cersei though cast a glance at the mirror, tossing her hair over in the process. Surveying her appearance, she hummed in approval. She agreed, she said.</p><p>Cersei had the type of attraction that veered on artificial, at least as far as Brienne was concerned. Her golden blonde hair was styled in a bouffant, the tips hitting a little past her shoulders. She wore a bright red blazer with a white blouse underneath, with white pants and pointy-toed beige heels. She carried an enormous red bag that could carry ten books, her lunch and a small dog if she wished. To top the outfit off, sunglasses sat at the top of her head. She looked exactly like Jaime, but different in a way Brienne couldn’t place. It was like they were the same sentence but with different fonts. Cersei was the cruel, sarcastic font, though she couldn’t quite place Jaime yet, except his was likely frillier and more swooping.</p><p>“Should get these mirrors installed at Casterly Rock,” Cersei muttered, still enamored by her appearance. Seven hells, if she was to stay there all day just because she liked looking at herself—</p><p>“Perhaps they should be installed at the bottom of your swimming pool,” Brienne suggested.</p><p>She should have regretted it. She didn’t, not even as Cersei froze before casting the coldest, viper-like look toward Brienne. Putting her hand on her hip, Brienne prepared for it, the onslaught of a nasty and scathing monologue that attacked her looks and her starting acting skills, but what way could Cersei hurt Brienne? Others had hurt her in the same ways, she could handle it.</p><p>And yet just as she prepared for what surely be an epic if overdramatic clapback for a joke Cersei likely heard before, Jaime walked the makeup room. He was carrying a plate of her pear pie.</p><p>“Cersei!” Jaime exclaimed with a mouthful of pie in his mouth. “What are you doing here?”</p><p>“What are you doing here?” Cersei retorted.</p><p>Brienne could answer that: he was eating a slice of pie, of which she wanted to save exclusively for lunch, and a pie he should not be eating in the dressing room either. Jaime answered instead, telling her he happened to have rehearsal at the theatre.</p><p>“I came to visit you,” she said, batting her eyelashes. “Jaime. I wanted to see if what father said was true about your leading lady, that she was truly talented.” She offered another smarmy glance toward Brienne.</p><p>“Father wouldn’t steer anything wrong,” Jaime said, his voice laced with honeyed irony.</p><p>“Of course he wouldn’t,” she said, wiping a piece of pie away from Jaime’s face. “Well. Your leading lady,” she continued punctuating the words with a firm point toward Brienne, “just told me to go drown myself.”</p><p>“She merely said to put the mirrors here at the bottom of our pool,” Jaime replied, wiping his mouth. “Whether you want to drown yourself or not is up to you.”</p><p>“<em>Jaime</em>.”</p><p>He shrugged. “Pear pie Cersei? Our stage manager said our dear leading lady made it. And we love multi-talented artists.”</p><p>Cersei spoke through gritted teeth. “Indeed.”</p><p>She didn’t say anything, leaving Jaime to wave the pie at her. “Come on. You’d like it. And it’s a pear pie, who would ever have thought? It’s sweet but not too sweet. A bit spicy. Just like my leading lady.”</p><p>“You’re not supposed to eat in the makeup room,” Brienne reminded</p><p>“You are not the stage manager anymore,” Jaime reminded in turn, taking another bit of pie, brows furrowed in concentration. “Hm. Is that bit of cinnamon?”</p><p>“And nutmeg,” Brienne added, despite herself.</p><p>“Delectable,” Jaime said. “Here Cersei, take a bite…”</p><p>Like trying to feed a picky child, Jaime waved his arm around to get Cersei to eat. She refused on the count of her diet, though Brienne didn’t see why she would think a diet was necessary. If she was still the stage manager, she would have told Cersei it was a closed rehearsal and visitors weren’t allowed, but as Jaime reminded her, her authority had been revoked. She looked anywhere but at Jaime and Cersei as they began to squabble, Cersei stating he should take a roll on All My Fledglings once this was over.</p><p>“No,” he stated. “I like the theatre.”</p><p>Brienne saw a flash of something in Cersei’s eye—an inward scream and shock. “But Jaime,” she said with a stern smile, “you know what Father has planned.”</p><p>“Certainly. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”</p><p>He met Brienne’s eye, briefly, but it was enough. Before that moment, she still had doubts about Jaime.</p><p>He was an obstinate arse, a showoff, and an egocentric actor and porn star who was also a no good pie eater and clown. But to Brienne, he wasn’t a liar. He wanted to be good. “Jaime—”</p><p>“How about I catch you later?” Jaime asked. “I believe the stage manager has this as a closed rehearsal.”</p><p>“Oh, even to me?”</p><p>She offered the prettiest of smiles, but Jaime was unphased. “You’re not special.”</p><p>He spoke with the nonchalance of offering his coffee order. Brienne stared, mouth agape as Cersei just barely stopped herself from stomping her foot and exiting, Jaime setting his now cleaned pie plate down on the counter. What happened? She asked herself. She heard stories about Cersei…stories about Jaime and Cersei that were either blown out of proportion or outright fabricated, but the unexpectedness of the moment was still too shocking to believe. The whole events leading her casting were frankly unbelievable.</p><p>Jaime must have sensed her unease, and he spoke before Brienne could remind him that there was a trashcan nearby for his pie plate, when he apologized on his sister’s behalf.</p><p>“Good joke though,” he complimented. “You’re rather witty.”</p><p>He flashed a smile. She rolled her eyes. “Kingslayer,” she said, because she knew that got under his skin.</p><p>He ignored the name, taking the conversation back to Cersei. “My sister thinks I’m on the same page as her. See, she never liked Ned in the first place, and she’d be happy to see this place burn in flames. But we’re not going to let that happen, are we?”</p><p>Brienne remembered her conversation with Sansa. “No.”</p><p>He smirked. “Good, good. Now I should remind you my name is Jaime.”</p><p>“Kingslayer.”</p><p>Resigned, he shrugged. “Well, alright then. Come on. Let’s have a good rehearsal, shall we Jonquil?”</p><p>It was all fair, she started it, but she reminded him her name was Brienne.</p><p>“And Jonquil as well on stage,” he said. “Now…”</p><p>He offered his outstretched hand. She stuck up her nose, knowing what this was. He may have been partially on her side, but she had seen it a thousand times—faux niceties, faux gentlemanly behavior as a way to make eventual cruelty and mockery even crueler. Oh. You think I really meant to dance with you? It was to make her believe at first, reel her in before striking. She knew it well.</p><p>Jaime snorted. “Well. Someone is acting a wench.”</p><p>Well, if he was to give her a name, she could own it. “I am a wench,” she declared. “At least according to you. Your sister’s a bitch.”</p><p>She wasn’t typically keen on that word, but Jaime laughed and admitted the truth in it. “And in this place,” he said, laughter quieting, “you are my Jonquil.”</p><p>When rehearsals officially began later, Catelyn decided on another read through with the new Jonquil, handing out new scripts as well that contained a few minor changes. A little too giddily, Brienne highlighted her lines in the new book as well, relishing how much there was. When they read through it again, Jaime offered his realest take on the character, and not the overblown clown performance he offered last time. Others couldn’t help but be reeled in, Brienne begrudgingly admitting it most of all. It was all the worse as he sat directly across from her, her line of sight directly squared on him. It would have been better to sit nearer, she thought, as he kept casting glances at her, shooting knowing glances that sized her up and down, and not in a way that Cersei stared at her, but a way that made her feel like she was taking up a lot of space. She may have been convinced he wanted to offer audiences a good performance, and he wasn’t in fact coming up with some scheme, but she still wasn’t sure where she fit in. Maybe it was as he said, he was her only option. Maybe he liked her skills.</p><p>
  <em>Remember who he is.</em>
</p><p>Truthfully, as she read through, she forgot. When she spoke her lines, she felt the eyes of all her peers burn into her. She knew when audiences didn’t like what they saw, but this wasn’t the case. They may not have been enraptured, but they were listening. They were curious. The stage manager could act. Afterward, Catelyn nodded with a smile, Pod beamed, and even Theon didn’t seem like he hated it. It felt right. Everything was right.</p><p>“Now,” Catelyn said after they were done reading through the first act, Brienne feeling as though she could soar, “I wanted to do this read through again not only because we have a new lead, but the author has made adjustments to the second act. I know it’s frustrating, but that’s the nature of producing a new play, and thankfully we haven’t blocked that far yet. Namely, the most significant change is a new scene.”</p><p>“What sort of new scene?”</p><p>Catelyn sipped her coffee. “I was getting there,” she said. “Between Florian and Jonquil, there will be a balcony scene, where Florian climbs to Jonquil’s room before the final battle. It is there that they spend the night and consummate their love before—"</p><p><em>“What?</em>”</p><p>All eyes were on Brienne again, but for another, far worse reason. Surely she hadn’t heard it right. Surely…</p><p>“Are you ready for our moment?” Jaime asked, opening the page to the second act. “Don’t worry. I’m quite good. Though you know that already.”</p><p>He roared with laughter. She couldn’t quite look at him for the rest of rehearsal, especially not after reading the love seen and seeing the author didn’t intend to tastefully fade to blackout before things got too spicy. Earlier, she had flown. It was nice to fly while it lasted.</p><p>Because now she was falling and hitting the stage with an unceremonious thud.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. The Diarist</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Sorry for the loooong wait. I'm easing myself back into this fic!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>From the journals of Brienne of Tarth</p><p>
  <em>Well, here’s my rehearsal log. I’ve always told actors they need to write every day about their experiences in rehearsal. It would be very hypocritical if I didn’t do the same thing. We’re not blocking the fight scenes yet, but we’re going through the show bit by bit. We won't go back to the fight scenes until Catelyn's ready, so I have time to prepare. I’m trying to do some extra reading as well, reading romance novels and trying to find what it’s like. Jaime has already asked me if I’ve ever been in love. He asked the day after I fell and hit my head after finding about the love scene. I told him love was many things not relegated to just love in the romantic sense and yes I loved. He didn’t really react. It’s hard to know what he thinks a lot of time.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It seems really nice to be in love. Like getting swept up in a grand ideal, like your reality is better than dreams. It makes me think, what do I even dream about? Smooth rehearsals I suppose. Good theatre.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Ugh. Why must it be Jaime?</em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>We blocked Jonquil and Florian’s first meeting today. Jaime kept giving me suggestions on how I should bat my eyelashes and what tone I should use. Apparently Jonquil must be “an innocent maiden with a heart of a lion underneath.” I told Jaime he had the bravado of a lion but was a kitten underneath it all. Theon Greyjoy laughed so hard he nearly fell out of his chair. It reminded Jaime of how I fell out of my chair after I found out about the love scene and it made him laugh so hard he snorted.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He snorts. Who would have thought?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I almost forgot about it until he brought it up. I almost forgot I’m supposed to use this journal to talk about my character and the rehearsal journey. Woops.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Tomorrow.</em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>So, I’m sorry. I fibbed. It’s been about a week. Been learning my lines while not at rehearsal and doing more research with reading and watching romances while we’re still blocking at rehearsal. Pod’s doing really well and keeps the actors in line while he keeps Catelyn organized. I’m having trouble adjusting to not being a stage manager. I’m so used to keeping track of time and writing down blocking notes that I forgot during rehearsal yesterday that I need to only write my notes down. Who would have thought.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Jaime tells me often to keep getting into character. I keep thinking of Jonquil and how tedious her life must have been before. And then she meets Florian, who though a fool, is different. He enchants and he’s something to look forward to in the monotony. I think Jonquil likes that he’s a goofy fool. I can’t relate honestly, I think I like severity.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Okay. Perhaps not severity. But a yes. A knowing. I want to know someone loves me. Though I guess Florian is sure in his convictions. Love is so grand and yet the fools understand it.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Maybe I’m worse than a fool.</em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>I choregraphed the first fight scene and wrote rough outlines for the others. And. Well...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Oh. Jaime. Jaime, Jaime, Jaime. How I so enjoyed wiping that smirk off his face when I had him pinned. You know what I did as well? Once I got up, I bowed.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The arse. He said at least I learned how to do something. He needs to learn some manners then we'd be even.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Oh. I’m supposed to talk about my character in these diary pages. I’m sorry.</em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>Yes, I know these pages are for my character explorations but Jaime wanted to talk to me alone today before rehearsal. He says he thinks his father is onto the scheme and we need to develop another plan, something that will drum up excitement about the show before it formally even begins. He wants to get coffee and talk about it after rehearsal. I’m just waiting now at the coffee shop. Waiting, waiting…</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Oh. There he is. Of course he ordered another sugary drink.</em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>So. I heard him out.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And all I can say is what the f—</em>
</p><p>Scribbling at her kitchen table back from the coffee shop. Brienne marked out the obscenity. Shocked as she was, she had more pride than that.</p><p>No. She wouldn’t do it. She wouldn’t dare.</p><p>Pretend….to be…with him? With Jaime? Her, Brienne of Tarth pretend to be dating Jaime fucking Lannister?</p><p>She went ahead and wrote it in her journal, <em>what the fuck</em>. She supposed she has less pride than she thought, but he really was a fucking menace.</p><p><em>It’s a way to get people talking</em>, he said at the coffee shop. <em>It’ll get people excited. Then they buy more tickets. More tickets bought in presale more people see and realize we are quite good, even if the production is sabotaged. It’ll work. It’ll get people to notice you. How do you think most people acting get their roles? They dated someone who knew someone. Come on.</em></p><p>She didn’t respond. She got up and she walked out. She didn’t think he’d need to hear the no to know she was going to say no—as storming up dramatically spoke volumes. Her phone kept buzzing however with question marks all from Jaime.</p><p>She jumped when she heard the knock on the door. Groaning, she got up and opened it. She expected her landlord over Jaime Lannister but she shouldn’t have been surprised to see Jaime Lannister.</p><p>“No,” she said, firm. “Doesn’t storming off speak for itself?”</p><p>His hand stopped the door from closing. “Ow,” he muttered, though his hand remained at the spot. “Come on. It’s not just for publicity that I’m suggesting this.”</p><p>“Then why else are you suggesting it?” Brienne asked, five seconds away from prying his hand away. “Do you think I care what people say about me?”</p><p>“Yes actually. You wouldn’t be good at acting if you didn’t at least care a little bit.”</p><p>“I’m suspicious," she said to his hand in the doorway. "This is the first time you said I was good.”</p><p>“Well, you are. You just need more practice." Then after a moment, he added, "like I do.”</p><p>She paused for a moment, tapping her foot. “What do you mean? You need more rehearsal?”</p><p>“Merely I think,” he said, squeezing through the door. She didn’t fight him. He managed to nudge himself in, standing against the doorway He crossed his arms, looked her up and down. She crossed her arms too.</p><p>“Merely I think,” he said once more, “that it would be practice for both of us if we pretend.”</p><p>“Why would you need to practice?”</p><p>“Because maybe..." He ruffled his hair. "I’ve never loved either.”</p><p>He asked her to say something, anything. The rest however, was silence.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. The Strutter</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Brienne of Tarth’s mother had a mantra: make your stage wherever you are.</p><p>It was good advice that demanded a bowing to no one. It was also a firm reminder that she existed, she took up space, and she was allowed to take up that space, damn how tall she was or how freckly or how broad. She lived and she deserved it.</p><p>Truth to be told, Brienne of Tarth didn’t always take that advice. Brienne of Tarth carried the cruel jibes she heard when she was young, remembered too vividly what it was like to try to take up that space and make that stage and be told she didn’t deserve to.</p><p>
  <em>What if we made them think they were the blessed ones to know you, to share your space?</em>
</p><p>So said Jaime Lannister, her Florian. A fool on stage and a fool in real life, but perhaps she was the bigger fool, because Brienne of Tarth was about to step out of the car and begin Jaime Lannister’s newest stage.</p><p>The preparation was Sansa in her apartment, cobbling an outfit together from the various ones they picked out together in their shopping trip and telling her which ones to wear for which event. It continued with Brienne lining her eyes and coloring her lips and cheeks with pink, highlighting at the top. “Good job,” Sansa praised, Brienne admitting she picked up a few things from standing around the makeup room before performances while telling everyone to hurry up. She had herself and her luggage ready by the time Jaime knocked on her door, telling her ride awaited. “Break a leg,” Sansa said before she left.</p><p>They drove to Harrenhal in his black Rolls Royce. That was step one, they had to go to Harrenhal, because everyone who was everyone was at Harrenhal for a spa weekend and decadent food. He played the radio on the way, his singing of “The Bear and the Maiden Fair” the only sounds until he pulled up to the hotel, waiting for the valet. Brienne sat and waited with her legs crossed and sunglasses on.</p><p>“Blue suits you,” Jaime said, and he said it even before the valet opened the door.</p><p>Lowly, she thanked him. She wore blue with a side of fur, the white fur of her coat fluffing her shoulders. It was cold at Harrenhal, a snow expected, though she kept her legs bare. The fur was for show, and the most integral part of her costume as a decadent woman living in excess. It was less for utility, all for show. She always heard from other actors they could finally act when the costume was on. Perhaps she’d be the same.</p><p>The car door opened. The valet eyed her up and down as he took hand to help her step out of the car, nude heel hitting the concrete. Sansa picked the nude heels to pair with the fitted periwinkle dress. You have two options, Sansa said when Brienne first relayed Jaime’s plan to her. E<em>ither you say no and carry on. Pray the show works and Tywin Lannister’s backstage manipulations won’t affect ticket sales. Or you take part in Jaime’s plan. Go to the Harrenhal hotel and pretend you’re a couple for the weekend to make people want to see. I know the tricks. You have to get people talking. All press is good press. My father never really wanted to play those games.</em></p><p>“Shall we?” Jaime asked, offering his arm.</p><p>Brienne bit her lip. She rehearsed in sensible shoes, but in her new nude heels the heigh difference exaggerated and distorted her view on exactly how much taller she was than him. They were going to think Jaime was taking a giant out to dinner.</p><p>“Bri?”</p><p>Bri? She wasn’t sure what she thought of that, pushing strands of her newly fluffed hair away from her face. Of course the hair added to her height as well. Either they’d tell her she was a beast attempting to play at femininity in a dress or they’d call her bold. The secret to bold, Sansa said, was to own what you wore. Take up space. It’s what her mother always told her too.</p><p>She took his arm. They strut inside, arm in arm. Harrenhal was indeed, the spot. People in fancy dress milled about, the chandelier illuminating overhead. Just as Jaime said, patrons whipped out their phones. They’re going to peg you as Jonquil in the papers, Jaime said. They’ll talk about the show and our being together, clearly romantically involved, will get people talking They may call you names, but you will show them.</p><p><em>They’ll call you names too</em>, Brienne said earlier when he went over the plan again. <em>Are you alright with that?</em></p><p>
  <em>They already do. I’m used to it. Are you sure this is the life you want?</em>
</p><p>Truthfully, Brienne wasn’t so sure.</p><p>“Hello,” Jaime said to the clerk, Brienne still on his arm. “Jaime Lannister is here. He’d like to have his hotel room now.”</p><p>Just as Brienne suspected, the clerk’s eyes swept up and down her, offering the only the tightest lipped smile behind thinly veiled scrutiny. “Of course.”</p><p>“And I would like our bags taken to our room.”</p><p>Another smile. More scrutiny. “Of course.”</p><p>Eyes were on them as they strut to the elevator with their keycard, taking careful and deliberate steps. Once in the elevator they stood side by side, Jaime hitting the button for the eighth floor.</p><p>“The deluxe,” he said with a wink. “For us.”</p><p>She expected this big show, the wide smile as he took in the top of her fluffed hair to the tip of her heel, especially after the stopped the door from closing so more people could filter in. Jaime too was pretending just as she was. Oh yes, they bickered somewhat during rehearsals but it was mere flirtation. Belligerent sexual tension if you would that never let up, but some people enjoyed a bit of sparring in their romantic life. It was part of the show for him to look at her. What wasn’t part of the show however was the slight squeeze of her hand that the others who crowded in couldn’t see. How was that necessary? What was the purpose? Why was his hand warm? He said he’d never been in love before. Never was she. How did he know to squeeze? Did Florian do this in the story? Did he squeeze Jonquil’s hand once or twice maybe? But why did he squeeze when there was no need to?</p><p>One person recognized Jaime. A woman with dark hair and darkly rimmed eyes on the arms of a man Brienne didn’t give look to. “Enjoying Harrenhal for our weekend off,” Jaime said when asked why he was there. “Oh, would you like a picture? Of course. Shall Brienne be in it?”</p><p>“Brienne?”</p><p>Jaime flashed a dazzling, sugary smile. “My Jonquil. We’ll be performing at the Winterfell Theatre soon, if you’d like to see.”</p><p>The woman took a picture with and a picture without, exiting the elevator as it stopped to her floor. Jaime and Brienne were the last in the elevator as their room was at the top floor. “What was that about?” Brienne demanded as Jaime still walked with her arm and arm, keycard in his hand.</p><p>“Hush. We’ll be getting our bags soon. You know I adore you and I think we will have a wonderful weekend together—”</p><p>“Jaime!”</p><p>“Brienne!”</p><p>He kissed her hand. Soft and delicate and with all the grandness she’d come to expect from Jaime Lannister, especially when there was a crowd.</p><p>Yet there was no one around.</p><p>Even when he swiped the keycard and brought her into the room…and the room was a matter that would send her into hysterics if she let it—but she had a few things to say first—Jaime kept on the show. “We’re going to have so much fun,” he said, gesturing with unnecessary theatricality. “I know you’re tired from all the fight choreography and rehearsing. The bathes here are known for their healing properties—”</p><p>“Jaime. What are you doing?”</p><p>“It’s called staying in character,” he said without a moment’s hesitation, not even letting up his broad, dazzling smile.</p><p>“Do you plan on staying in character after hours? Jaime, there’s only—”</p><p>The concierge entered with their bags, Brienne shifting and plastering on a smile. “I can’t wait till dinner later,” she said, so seamlessly she thought her mother would be proud. “I hear the butternut squash soup is divine.”</p><p>“Indeed,” Jaime agreed, telling the concierge to put their two bags on the desk rather than the bed. “But you are most divine of all, sweetling.”</p><p>The concierge left, the door closing with a loud clink. “Sweetling?” Brienne demanded a moment after with cold, calculated control. “And earlier. You called me Bri. You never said anything about nicknames in your plan.”</p><p>“Bri, sweetling, darling…it suits you. Would you rather me call you wench?”</p><p>She grit her teeth. “Neither. My name is Brienne.”</p><p>“Oh come now.” He crossed his arms. “People who are sweet on one another call each other pet names.”</p><p>“How would you know? You’ve never been in love.”</p><p>She watched him deflate. Whereas before he was charming, jovial, perhaps even a bit infatuated Jaime Lannister, he transformed to the same Jaime she’d seen in interviews who asked about the porno film. What was it like getting into shapes for your nude scenes Mr. Lannister? One interview he even asked if there were any questions about his acting ability and not his other performance in the film, which he did admit still took great skill. How does one make love? He asked. Do they consume? Do they give? Is it both, more? How a person makes love tells a lot about them.</p><p>“Jaime—”</p><p>“No, no, by all means. Make it a point of contention. You just can’t seriously believe one has to live through something to be able to act it. Don’t you know empathy exists?”</p><p>“If empathy exists,” she said, and of that, she was sure it did, “then why have us play act?”</p><p>“I told you. It’s also publicity.”</p><p>“You’re willing to do this thing, all the time?”</p><p>“Aren’t you? You’re here.”</p><p>She huffed. Point taken. “Still…all the time?”</p><p>“I want to act. You do too, I know you. And at any rate, you can’t leave now. We’re here.”</p><p>“Imagine if I did.”</p><p>Sitting on the desk chair crossing her legs, she set the scene: Brienne of Tarth, the new actress of Winterfell Theatre’s Florian and Jonquil takes a room with up and coming porno star Jaime Lannister, but leaves mysteriously soon after he checks the two in. So much buzz, so much press. Why on earth would Brienne, a woman with such unfortunate looks dare to leave such a charming dreamboat?</p><p>“And how does this help me?” Jaime asked, reminding they agreed to help each other.</p><p>“I haven’t gotten to that part yet. Listen.”</p><p>“…<em>Sweet</em>—"</p><p>She continued the stage. “You win me back. You tell the press you made a mistake. And then they see us on stage, working together…”</p><p>“It sounds to me like you wouldn’t win me back.”</p><p>“I’d say you were charming enough.” She didn’t point out he sounded a little broken up.</p><p>“Perhaps we could try that for our next project.”</p><p>“Our next project?”</p><p>One weekend, he said. All they needed was one weekend. But now they were going to continue it on?</p><p>“Come now,” Jaime said, reading her thoughts. “It’s practice. Empathy exists but no one ever said practice was harmful. Besides. Don’t you want to do another project? It’ll be guaranteed, no matter what happens to the Theatre. But of course, we want it to do well…”</p><p>She thought of the eyes on her as she strut below, the ease, the glide. Pretending. She didn’t hate it. The costume wasn’t so bad either, if she did feel a little fluffed. And her costar…</p><p>There was worse out there. Far worse. Besides, if she left now…</p><p>Well. Where was the fun in that?</p><p>She stood, taking advantage of her height. “So,” she began, drumming suspense as she strut to him, motioning to the bed. He looked up at her, meeting her eyes. He didn’t ogle. He knew he won.</p><p>She could win too. “Are you going to sleep on that bed?” she asked.</p><p>“I’m certainly not sleeping on the floor,” he replied, matter of fact.</p><p>“Well why didn’t you get a room with two beds?”</p><p>“Because we’re a couple,” he reminded, duh all but unsaid.</p><p>“Well.”</p><p>She picked up a pillow and stuck it right down the middle, denoting their two separate sides. “Looks like we’re in for a threesome.”</p><p>“You wouldn’t dare. You’re not the type.”</p><p>He teased with his tone, his playful eye. “No,” she admitted. “But how would I know? I’ve never been in love. Perhaps once I try it out a little with you I’ll have a taste for some variety. Now…”</p><p>She threw off her coat. “Let’s go to dinner. Let’s get them talking.”</p><p>Slowly, he smirked. “They already are.”</p><p>“Let’s get them talking more. Come on.” She took his hand. “I could use some butternut squash soup.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are always appreciated. And feel free to say hit at my tumblr, a-shakespearean-in-paris.tumblr.com :D</p></blockquote></div></div>
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